That day Elisa had been there to take pictures had been a long one. After her practice shots, she’d had to snap the real thing all before they opened their doors at twelve o’clock. Then, when she’d finished, they’d cleaned up the staging area, which had been the dining room. And then they’d moved her computer into his office so they could go over every shot and choose the appropriate ones. But at least they’d finally gotten it done.

Man, he loved to watch her work. Talk about passionate. Just the way she held the camera turned him on almost as much as she did in bed. He’d damn near gone apoplectic when he’d slapped eyes on her that day. And in a weak moment, he’d given into his impulse and slanted his mouth over hers. As hot as the kiss had been, it hadn’t been nearly enough. That’s why, for most of the shoot, he’d stayed scarce. Because he hadn’t trusted himself to be near her and not embarrass himself with a little tent action below the belt. Hell, the time it had taken to view the finished photos on her computer had been torture. It had been like placing a starving person in front of a buffet and then shackling their hands and feet together. Yeah, basically torture.

But he’d plugged through like the professional man he was.

He should have been relieved. They’d finally completed the task and could move on. Now Brody could focus on getting Anthony on the road toward head chef. Isn’t that what he’d wanted? Not only wanted but needed to focus on?

So why couldn’t he think of anything else besides Elisa and not having any real excuse for seeing her again? Okay, except maybe the fact that he was basically obsessed with her. Thought about her day and night. Dreamed about her. Was pretty much suicidal at the thought of her leaving.

Unfortunately, for now he had a much more pressing issue at hand. “Fuck,” Brody muttered, and he paced from one end of his office to the other, trying to find a solution that wouldn’t backfire in their faces.

The woman who was coming in from The Trouble Citizen had slammed them about a year ago, warning Trouble citizens to steer clear of the Golden Glove. Her harsh words had hurt and had been yet another nail in the restaurant’s coffin. Luckily for Brody, Charlene had finessed her way onto the critic’s good side and had even offered the meal on the house. Charlene had then gone one step further and had faxed some of their recent good reviews to Michelle Thompson, the critic. Michelle had obviously been pleased with what she’d read and the prospect of a free meal, and had agreed to come.

How would it look if they told her not to come after all?

Pretty damn shitty, which was how Brody felt right now.

Just as he was about to make another circle around his desk, Charlene opened his office door and stepped through.

He stopped his pacing and faced his assistant manager. “What did she say?”

Charlene came to a stop on the other side of his desk. Her somber expression didn’t give him much encouragement. “It’s today or never. She’s booked solid for quite a while. If she doesn’t come today, she can’t guarantee she’ll be able to come back at all.”

“Fuck,” he cursed again. He plowed a hand through his hair and yanked on the strands harder than he needed to.

“Maybe we should call this one off, Brody,” Charlene suggested.

“No,” he answered immediately. “We need her endorsement. She has a ton of readers.” He walked to the side of his desk and perched on the edge. “What did you tell her?”

“Just that we were short-staffed in the kitchen and today wasn’t the best day.”

Which was technically true.

Charlene nibbled on a fingernail. “Do you think I should call her back and tell her the truth?”

If she did that, Michelle might wash her hands of the restaurant and they could lose a very good opportunity. If she did come in, they ran the risk of the sous-chefs not doing a good enough job, and they could end up shooting themselves in the foot. Yet the sous-chefs had always been good about covering up Travis’s mistakes.

“Brody?” Charlene said.

“No, call her back and tell her to come in as planned. I’m going to put Stanley in charge today and have him prepare the dishes for me beforehand to make sure he can execute them properly.”

Charlene lifted a skeptical brow. “And you think Stanley can do that? He’s good, but he’s not Anthony.”

No one could replace Anthony. But this was the best Brody could come up with. “He can do it.” He’d damn well better. “Besides, he pretty much trained Anthony in the kitchen.”

“On procedure, not talent.” She held her hands up at the look on Brody’s face. Then she nodded, inhaled a deep breath, held it for a moment then blew it back out. “Okay. I’ll go call Michelle back.”

Brody watched her walk out of his office and sank back into his chair with a weary sigh. Every time they took two steps forward, they’d be forced to take a step back. Although, realistically, today could be the equivalent of going back fifty steps if Stanley screwed up.

That was something he couldn’t think about.

“Risky move, Brody.”

He glanced up to see his father, who stood in the doorway. Great, just what he didn’t need—a nice helpful dose of pessimism and no confidence.

“Stanley can do it,” he said to convince himself just as much as his old man.

“The young man is a good cook, yes. But do you think he can prepare a dish worthy of a food critic?”

Brody leaned back in his chair. “He’s worked side by side with Anthony for over a month now. He’s seen the man prepare the dishes before, even assisted with them. Yes, I think he can do it.”

Martin didn’t respond. He stared at Brody with those sharp gray eyes of his, as though considering a way that would be better than Brody’s. “If you’re sure,” he finally said.

“This is our only opportunity, Dad.”

“I want to see that mock-up for the magazine now that you’re finished with it.” He issued the demand instead of acknowledging Brody’s statement. Whatever. Martin would always find something to bitch about no matter what Brody did.

Brody glanced at the mock-up that had been sitting on his desk since yesterday. “Sure,” he answered.

His father walked back into the hallway, leaving Brody to brood in his own frustration. The mock-up of the article had arrived in the mail yesterday, and he’d yet to take the time to really examine it. Mostly because looking at it made him think of Elisa and remember the way her brows pinched together right before she snapped a picture. Or the look of concentration on her face as she stared at a setup before making a minute adjustment. He’d never seen anyone take a job so seriously before.

He needed to see her again. It had only been a few days since he’d emotionally gutted himself in between bouts of outstanding lovemaking. Being apart from Elisa felt like going through withdrawal from an addictive drug. They’d done a lot of talking, yet he felt like there was so much more that needed to be said between them.

Like, where they stood. Did they have some kind of future? Brody still didn’t know. Yes, he loved her. He loved her like he’d never loved any woman before. But he was damaged goods. Since his divorce, Brody had come to learn he existed better on his own. He had the potential to seriously hurt Elisa. In fact, those wheels had probably already been set in motion, especially since she’d already admitted to leaving town in a few months. And possibly not returning…

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to stay away from her. He needed to be near her, needed to see those expressive brown eyes.

And even though Brody knew it would be best to walk away from Elisa, he wasn’t sure if he could.


Elisa was going to have to break Tyler’s heart.

And the knowledge made her sick to her stomach.

After returning from a job shooting photos for a brochure for a woman who’d just started her own catering business, Elisa had come home, gathered Brinkley in her car, and taken the dog to the vet. She’d had to practically carry the animal inside the clinic. His hind legs were in such bad shape, the poor thing couldn’t take two steps without slinking to the ground. During the few weeks he’d been with her, his condition had deteriorated. So much so that she’d had to physically feed him because he couldn’t get up and walk to his bowl. After a while, she’d known something serious was wrong with him.

When the vet had said the word “tumors,” Elisa knew Brinkley’s days were numbered. Apparently he had them all over, and he had a bad case of arthritis, which was why his legs were in such bad shape. The vet had done an extensive examination of the dog and determined he was around twelve or thirteen years old. The whole time Brinkley had lain on the table, gazing up at her with those big brown eyes as if to say “Put me out of my misery please.” The vet had recommended putting the dog to sleep.

“He’s in a lot of pain,” the doctor had said. “Given his age, there’s not a whole lot we can do. The best thing would be to put him down.”

Elisa had only spent a few weeks with the sweet animal, but she’d had to fight back tears as she listened to the vet. The poor dog had wandered around for Lord knows how long, alone, sick, in pain, and probably starving. She’d done the best she could with him. Fed him, walked him when he’d still been able to walk. Then she’d sat on the floor next to him and scratched his ears, which seemed to be his preferred place for attention.

She’d grown attached to him, and now she had to say good-bye. Tyler would mourn, and he’d loved Brinkley more than anyone did.

With a lump in her throat, she’d made an appointment for first thing next week to have Brinkley put to sleep. That meant the dog would be in pain for another three days. The vet, obviously sensing Elisa’s despair, had given Brinkley some pain medication so at least he could be comfortable for the remainder of his life—which wasn’t long.